What I Couldn't Tell Him

9 - Adds To The Charm

JAIMIE POV

As I cross the threshold into my house, I am greeted by my mother and the smell of jasmine tea.

"Hi, Jaimie. Can we have a quick chat before you go upstairs?" She asks, a sickly smile on her face.

"What about?" I ask as she shoves the mug of tea into my hands like a contract.

"School." She answers, pulling a chair up at the kitchen island. Warily, I pull one across and slide it up to the table.

"So, it's about, well your friends." She answers.

"My friends?" I ask, chewing my lip and tapping the mug rhythmically with my fingernail.

"I wasn't snooping, but you left your phone and I saw a lot of pictures of you and some girls, erm, one was Jenni, was there an Eloise?" She answers cautiously.

"Elodie," I reply flatly. Why was she checking my phone? I don't let on to her that it bothers me.

"Yes, I just.. I think you know." She mumbles.

My hands grip the tea, my body cold and stiff, as though I can suck the heat from it.

"We aren't very close. I have never even seen them out of school."

"Jaimie, please don't get upset. I just, I don't want everyone getting hurt when you..." She starts crying now. Her body and voice seem unaffected, but there are tears slipping from her eyes in a steady stream. I do not know how to comfort her, and whether she would even want me to.

Instead, being a coward, I slip out of the room. The sound of her sniffling stalks me down the hall.

I lie back against my pillow, staring at the whitewashed ceiling. There are now band posters and quotes pasted up on the walls. It isn't so bare, and I resent my growing attachment to it. The house is pretty; old, warm bricks and tall windows, bearded by ivy and wisteria. The garden has an old oak tree right in the middle and I'm already fond of it. There are little banks of wildflowers bordering the road and a sweet white cat that greets me in the mornings sometimes.

I don't realise I am crying until a stray tear leaves a mark on my shirt. I wipe my eyes furiously, probably making my face red.

Then I hear a sharp clicking noise, insistent and familiar.

This time, I know its not my record player.

Slowly, I turn to the side, realising my curtains have been open all this time.

Alden watches me, concern etched across his features, a stone in his hand. There are a few on my windowsill.

I swing my window open.

"What?" I ask, trying to be at least a little friendly, and failing miserably.

"You were crying." He states.

"No sh*t Sherlock."

"Why were you crying?" He asks.

"Because I was sad," I reply before attempting to shut the window. For old houses, they are irritatingly close together. There can't be more than a meter between my window and his, since the upper floors cantilever out a little, like victorian ones.

He stretches an arm across the gap to stop me.

"What made you sad?"

"Hey, just stop. I'm not going to tell you." I sigh, wishing I could muster irritation rather than wistful misery. I try again to shut the window. But he is stronger than I am.

"Let me take your mind off it." He attempts and I shake my head. His face contorts into frustration and still manages to be handsome. For fuck's sake.